


Tamed, Wild, Caged, and Feral Creatures

by merripestin



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Magic, Masturbation, Romance, Vaginal Sex, Violence, possessive thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:37:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merripestin/pseuds/merripestin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle is there, in his house, a fortune un-earned.</p><p>Until his will crumbled, he would pretend to be what she thought he was, what she thought she wanted.  He'd lay his mangy hide down at her feet and let her hands soothe him and pretend not to be rabid and broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [podfic version read by merripestin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1139058)

_Storybrooke, three days after the end of the curse_

 

Between unlocking his door and stepping inside, Rumplestiltskin had to pause; there was something high in his chest that hurt so sweetly he had to stop and let it sting through him, savoring: she was there, Belle in his house.

It wasn't home, of course, wasn't his Dark Castle, and yet having her here brought back open books left on the table in the entry hall, maddening cheerful tuneless song from the kitchens, and a thousand small objects moved slightly from where he'd left them, evidence of her bright life moving within his dark walls.

The Dark Castle had been home and security, the shadowed, safe den where he could cower in safety and strike out at the world. For a little while, Belle's presence made it something else. Then she'd been gone, gone and gone and gone, and the air in all the rooms had turned deadened and numb around him, darker and unfeeling and safer.

This place, in this strange world, afforded the stifling safety of dullness; twenty-eight years of unchanging tedium behind his sturdy lock, while he waited for some royal chit to finish growing up and find her destiny. He'd brought the numbness of Belle's death with him, and never missed her here.

That was what made it so wondrous and so strange. For all his long life he had strained and clawed for things he wanted, and nearly always been cheated, left reviled and cringing, left to try again. Suddenly she was here, un-looked-for, a beautiful fortune bestowed on him without his knowing why.

The surprise of it always colored his greeting when first he saw her. "Hey," he said, shutting the door, turning the lock and then the two sturdy bolts.

She was smiling, that beautiful crooked smile, crook'd further still as she bit her lip. "I may have broken your stove," she said, a teasing amused sort of nervousness in her tone that reminded him of a chipped cup, a torn curtain, the familiar sound of furniture thumping to the floor and her prim, _Oh damn!_ from down the corridor.

"Oh yes?" Come to think of it, there was a little scent of smoke in the air, and the place was cool, as if the windows had been open. He was struck by another sting of sweetness that she'd used his kitchen. Her presumption that what was his was hers to use felt intimate and warm.

She pressed her lips together and looked up at him, "Ye—es. I was making lunch."

She’d barely really been in this world three days, had no chance before to learn how to use running water, much less a gas cooker. There she was, his brilliant girl, brain and bravery always running far ahead of her hands, wanting to know, wanting to try. He followed her, grinning.

 

 

_Seventeen years before the curse_

 

Rumplestiltskin saw the dog before he saw the girl. It was a massive creature with a golden brown ruff round its rather snubbed face, and it stood in Sir Maurice’s gardens, foursquare and huge and patient, waiting for its master.

Lao was talking to his host in the solar and had left his dog outside. It was his company and protection on the road, and he traveled freely as few merchants did in the land; news like Lao’s dog got around.

It was Lao Rumplestiltskin was interested in, and only happenstance that he’d been in this little town when Rumplestiltskin had found him. Lao had got hold of a certain nightingale, which was needed by a courtier who knew where a certain key was hidden, which would open a door a certain duchess needed to pass through, and . . . and link-by-link, the chain led back to the curse, and the plan, and to Baelfire, out there somewhere, too far away.

At times he found himself making a game of it, amusing himself with the complex series of exchanges he could build along the way, the tricks and the games he could play. It was that, or go mad with the howling emptiness of so many years of failures and blind alleys and broken hopes.

He was simply waiting around at the moment, for Lao to finish his business and go to his room, so that Rumplestiltskin could pop in behind him, scare the pants off the man, and see about that bird. He waited, he watched, although in this provincial little place it was unlikely he would pick up much of use.

He only noticed the little girl because she was walking towards the dog. She had dark hair with a sheen of auburn in the light, and blue eyes, and she had a book in one hand. She was walking slowly forward, eyes on the huge dog.

Rumplestiltskin, out of sight, tilted his head to the side. Apparently she intended to tease the creature. And then it would most likely savage her. This might well be entertainment enough to while away the boredom. And then, given Maurice’s temper and lack of any sense of humor, Lao would probably end the night locked up, which would make the deal for possession of the nightingale particularly easy to make.

Rumplestiltskin rubbed his hands together gleefully, waiting for the growling and the shrieks.

The little girl stopped five paces away from the dog, and looked at it. She looked nervous, so apparently she knew that it was a dangerous animal. And yet here she was. Silly little people, so stupid, so self-destructive.

She opened her book and looked at it, then said, in a clear child’s voice, “Thoo-wuh.”

Rumplestiltskin’s eyes widened.

“Thoo-uh,” she said again.

The dog was still for a moment, then responded. Rumplestiltskin, who had always been good with dogs, could easily read what passed for thoughts in its doggy brain. The child was a stranger, but not threatening, and the sound she had made was close enough to a command it had learned to obey. It lowered its rear to the grass and raised its head up.

“Good dog,” the little girl chirped, and checked her book. “Haw goh!” she said seriously. “Haw goh.”

The dog sat there regally. It knew it was a good dog, but it was always nice to be told.

Grinning in delight, the little girl took a few steps nearer, and reached out. In the end her hand was shaking a little in fright, but she petted the dog’s big head through its ruff a few times, then backed off.

She was opening her book, possibly to look up another command, when Maurice’s voice came calling, “Belle? Belle?”

She turned and ran, book hugged tight to her chest.

Well, well, well, so Sir Maurice, dull and dull-witted, had managed to produce a tiny courageous scholar. That might be useful someday.

In exchange for the nightingale, Lao wanted a particularly fiddly potion against being strangled in his sleep by his wife. In the end, Rumplestiltskin ended up making his deal with the wife -- well, widow -- and didn’t think about Sir Maurice or his daughter or his town for nearly decade and a half.

 

Fourteen years later, a small vial hanging in the south window of Rumplestiltskin’s tower glowed suddenly bright green, and made a crackling noise. Interrupted in mid potion, he spat a curse at it, but then put his alembic aside and went to pluck it up. He poured out the vial onto the surface of a small black bowl full of water, and watched as an image formed.

It was a girl, young and dark haired, with startlingly pretty blue eyes. Rumplestiltskin had recently needed to gather a large number of human eyeballs of different colors, and was at the moment still rather attuned to the topic. Those would have done nicely for the fourth stage of that particular potion, though the ones he had found had served well enough.

She was in a small room, stone walls -- a bedchamber in a castle, most likely. She sat at a little table with three books open before her. On top of one of the books was a silver dish full of milk, with three drops of red spreading through it in delicate arcs.

“Rumplestiltskin, Rumplestiltskin, Rumplestiltskin,” she said.

It was a very old summoning charm, barely strong enough to knock a junior fairy off her trajectory. It did show up in a few books, because it was so harmless that real users of magic didn’t mind it being out in the public view. Books containing anything more efficacious were kept very carefully for the right eyes only.

Still, it would take some study to arrange the charm exactly right, and she had, to have set off his little alarm. Rumplestiltskin liked to know when someone was trying to attract his attention, although it would take something very powerful to actually force him to attend on a summoner.

The girl looked around the room. “Rumplestiltskin? Are you here? I ask your forgiveness for summoning you. I humbly request your help?” The last words became a question as she kept looking around the room, possibly thinking he was invisible.

Well, at least she was respectful, so he supposed he’d not bother to think up something funny to turn her into. Besides, his boots were new, and cleaning something sticky off the soles would be tedious.

“We’re being attacked by ogres. We need your help. I’ve been trying to convince my father to send for you, but he won’t listen. Please, please -- ohh, you’re not here at all, are you? Damn, damn, damn.” With a snorted breath of annoyance she slapped one of her books shut.

Interesting.

When Sir Maurice’s request came, some days later, Rumplestiltskin considered it. He had no love for ogres. And it would be nice to have someone with manners about to take care of things; sooner or later he was sure to get _somebody _all over these boots.__

 

 

_Storybrooke, three days after the end of the curse_

 

"I suppose I should've known when I couldn't find the kindling," Belle was laughing, as she finished washing up the lunch things.

Rumplestitskin was on his knees, in shirtsleeves and an apron, wiping the last of the sooty marks from down the front of the previously pristine cooker. "I admire the way you forged ahead despite your ignorance," he remarked.

"You're used to this world. All I had was twenty eight years in a little room. I mean, some things were there in my head, but mostly it was just, blank – empty."

Twenty-eight years, and he'd hardly ever been more than ten minutes walk from her.

He could slice the tendons on the backs of Regina's hands, one, then two, then three, counting up to ten, watching each finger collapse unstrung and limp. He could turn her into a flock of carrion crows and lock her in her own vault with nothing but her father's corpse for sustenance. He could take her eyes and put them into the head of a reaving wolf and turn the wolf on her so she could watch her own throat ripped out from inches behind the jaws that did it.

He turned on his knees and wrapped his arms round Belle's waist and pushed his face hard into the softness of her belly.

"Rumple – " she whispered, one hand coming down to rest hesitantly on his hair.

"Just – let me... if you want me to keep my promise and not go after Regina, I – " He held tight to Belle, her soft flesh a mute against his screams for vengeance, her body anchoring him against the imperative to fly across the town and crown himself with gore and injustice repaid, her hands soothing the itch to lay entrails in a heap at her feet and let her see his power in their gleam.

She stroked his hair for a moment, and her hands were soft, and once she cupped the back of his neck warm and sure as though his very skull were a precious object. She did not want entrails. She did not want him dark and tempest, iron and blood. And she had the right not to want that; all the blunt might of his magic and the cutting slice of his intellect hadn't kept her from that little room.

But he could not give her frailty. She could not want the impotent and fragile thing he had been before. She needed to be safe, but not to see the monstrousness in him that protected her. He would center the hurricane of his power, and keep her safe in the eye, unaware of the tearing brutality around her.

It was hard, so hard, to control the ache to let her see him mighty, to show her, as he would show the rest of the world, that she was his, and no one was permitted to touch what was his ever again.

Her fingers combed gently through his hair until he was controlled again. Then he let her go and braced a hand on the counter to help him stand, and turned his back on her while he took off his apron, giving them both a moment to relieve the tension.

"Well," he declared, whirling round with a flourish and grinning at her, "then it must be my pleasure to introduce you to some of the more pleasant offerings of this world. Would you like to try a film? It’s like a play you can watch when you like."

Rumplestiltskin had a modest entertainment center and a small library of films, bought against the endless boredom of living in this world and having to keep his wrangles with Regina on a superficial level while he waited out the curse. He had nothing that was like the stories Belle loved to read, because this world's fantasy movies only irked him with their superficial similarities to the real world.

He picked _The African Queen_ , a story of travel and adventure and a place that wasn't Storybrooke.

Mostly he watched Belle, who at first seemed mostly focused on the exotic animals and scenery, and then grew happily engrossed in the story of an ill-advised trip down a river in wartime and the growing love between a prim missionary and a roguish boat captain.

By the middle of the film she had leaned back on the couch, her shoulder warmly against his. Then abruptly Belle pulled up her legs and squirmed around and laid her head in his lap.

Rumplestiltskin stared down at her, Belle vulnerable and trusting as if she didn't know what sort of creature he was. He touched her hair, and curls twined round his finger and beneath them her skin was warm as sunlight.

They'd never been quite this before, not ever. Only brief embraces, only in moments of desperation. A kiss goodbye, a kiss hello. This was new, and lovely, and he petted her until a whitewater scene engaged her attention enough that she sat up again, though this time leaning close in against his side.

He let himself relax against her, pressed close, and was startled when she shifted and tugged at him so that his back was leaning against her chest. "Belle?" he murmured, dry lipped.

"Stretch out with me?" she whispered. Dreamily, he let her pull him down, with Belle behind him and her arm round him. The couch was just long enough with his knees bent up, and the feeling of Belle's knees tucking in against the back of his made his breath catch.

"Can you even see the screen?" he asked.

In answer she pushed up on one elbow and dug her chin lightly into the side of his arm. She couldn't be comfortable. He wasn't exactly comfortable himself. And he'd have torn the skin in strips off anyone who'd tried to make him move away.

Her hand was splayed on the center of his chest and he'd not asked for this, not worked for this, not earned this with power and spite and cunning. He didn't understand why he had it, and he had no power to keep it, and fear burned in his belly that it might be taken away.

So he lay perfectly still through the rest of the film, except to quiver a little when her hand slowly stroked him. When a finger passed over his nipple it knotted tight and aching.

Finally Katherine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart swam away into a presumed happy ending,

"I do like films," she pronounced quietly as the screen went dark.

"We could . . . watch another," he suggested.

She laid her head down, and he felt her breath at the base of his neck. "Not really in the mood for another." Her hand stroked in a circle, as high as his collarbones and nearly down to the level of his navel. "The one thing my little room had, you know, was a bed. In the hospital, and in the cell before that, in the Queen's castle."

He gave a little sound of acknowledgment, not sure how else to respond.

"Not much to do in there, so sometimes I'd just lie there..." The next circle of her hand was entirely on his belly.

Breath shuddered in his throat. "Belle – "

"In the hospital I'd wish for anyone, just someone to be with me, someone I could touch. But before that, when I remembered, I'd lie there and touch and think of you – " a more focused circle, just below his navel, " – think of you there."

He turned his face down into the cushion. In his belly tension was strung, perfectly balanced and terrible, between the need to roar and spray the streets with blood, and the need to turn over and swallow these unbearably erotic admissions from her mouth.

Straying lower, her hand passed the waistband of his trousers, and though she wasn't quite touching his cock yet, she had to feel the heat and the tautness of the fabric. "Belle – " he breathed again.

"Let me," she whispered, "you have to let me."

Then Belle's hand cupped him. Pressing into her palm, he moaned, and she squeezed him and shifted up to kiss his neck. Grimacing with the bright bursts of feeling, Rumplestiltskin gasped for air.

Her hand stroked slowly up, away from his cock, and he thought she was done with him. But then her fingers slid down again, this time under the waistband, working awkwardly past the tail of his shirt and into his underthings. Her fingers were so soft, wrapping and shifting and stroking down and then up again and Rumplestiltskin had no defense, no defense at all against her. She stroked and he moaned and pumped his hips helplessly.

Belle worked her other hand in under his side, just wrapping it round his waist and holding him tight to her while the first hand worked inside his trousers.

He was a small, ugly little man, and Milah had been quite clear about her discontent with every aspect of his body. But Belle was touching him as if he were precious, and breathing as if she loved touching him, and with every breath whispering, "Yes," or, "Good, oh good," or, "There, yes, you're perfect."

Finally he couldn't hold back a groan, and clutched for her wrist. "Belle, stop. You've got to stop."

Her hand stilled, but she whispered, "No, no, let it happen. Please. You’ve got to let me feel you"

She moved her hand just for a moment more, a firm slide up, down, up, and down again, and his back arched and a flare of ecstasy made him cry out, and then he was burning like dead wood, like straw, like an army destroyed by magic, a blaze that started at the root of his cock and spread fast to cover the whole of his body, left him trembling and sweating in her arms.

There were tears in his eyes, and all he could do was lie there, dazed and overcome.

He'd lain with Milah, made his clumsy attempts to please her, inexperienced and knowing he was useless, and in the end unable to do anything but press as close into her sweet body as she would let him get and find release.

He'd had a few women later, when sex had been much like fighting had become, once he had the power – mostly showing off for his own amusement, just one more tool, persuading or allowing them to think he could be persuaded.

In all his life, no one had given him pleasure as if he were worthy of it.

"I love you," he whispered, voice thick. "Belle, I do love you."

She nuzzled softly at his ear. "Enough to lend me your handkerchief?" she murmured as she extracted her hand.

Understanding why she needed it made him give a last little shudder, and he hurriedly pulled out his handkerchief from his trouser pocket. She took it from his hand and wiped her fingers clean. For a moment she held the fabric as if unsure what to do with it, and he took it back and balled it up into his pocket again.

"You don't know, how much I've wanted that," she whispered against his neck, and kissed his cheek.

He ought to turn over, kiss her, pull his every trick, such magic as he'd learned to use in this world, to bring her to the height of pleasure, make her shake and keen with joy.

And the moment he turned, she would see his face. And there was nothing he could do to stop her seeing him clear and true for the ugly little coward, the disgusting little creature he was.

Why on earth had he allowed this to happen?

If he loved her, how could he have let her touch a monster?

"I love you," she murmured, stroking his chest once more. "I've ruined your suit haven't I?"

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he managed.

"Your housekeeper will be shocked."

Mr. Gold had a housekeeper, who he paid to come into his house twice in the week and spare him the tedium of cleaning. She came while he was in the shop and he hardly saw her. So it took Rumplestiltskin a moment to realize that Belle was joking, that she was thinking of herself as his housekeeper still.

He caught her hand and brought it up to his mouth and kissed it, kissed it, kissed it.

With a soft giggle, Belle took her hand back and then tapped hard on his shoulder. "Get up. My arm's going to sleep."

He sat up hurriedly. Belle wriggled out from behind him and stood up. "You should probably change," she said, and pecked a quick kiss on his hair before leaving the room. "I'll start dinner, now that I know how the kitchen works."

Rumplestiltskin had to sit for a moment, breathing, cursing himself. He'd done nothing for her, nothing at all, and of course she'd just as happily forget about it, go back to keeping house for him. It had been one of the few beautiful moments of his life, and like every one of them he'd ruined it.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

_Three years before the curse_

 

At the beginning of Belle’s second winter with him, the wolves came. It was one of those amusing little wrangles with Regina: she had transformed an entire family into wolves out of offense or spite, and he had amused himself -- and not done badly -- out of a deal to give them each a charm to change them back. He’d been expecting a reprisal, but not that she would be quite so vicious about it.

He heard them howling in the afternoon, and by evening knew they were at his walls. Typical Regina, stripping them of their charms and sending them straight back at him. She’d probably stamped her little foot and said _so there_ too. When something didn’t work, her first impulse always seemed to be to do it again, harder, and with more vitriol.

He noticed Belle looking up at the howling, frown between her eyes.

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “They can’t get in.”

“Wolves don’t act like that,” she said. “They might go into a village, if they were starving, if there were no other game in the forest. But there’s plenty. We’ve only just had the first snow. And there are only the two of us here -- not a lot of prey for them.” This, like most of her knowledge, likely came from a book; by that time she’d been through all the books he owned that were safe for her to read, and he’d found himself acquiring more just to keep her happy.

“I am not prey,” Rumplestiltskin corrected.

She smiled.

“And they’re not,” he shrugged and flickered his fingers, “strictly speaking, wolves. They’re enchanted.”

“They want you to save them,” she said. Belle, for reasons best known to herself, liked to think that he was in the business of saving people, rather than in the business of doing business.

“No, they’ve been sent to attack me.”

“Sent, by who?”

He waved airily. “I have enemies.”

“You? No!” she said in mock surprise, and he found himself smiling back at her. She laughed easily now, with none of the nervousness she’d had at first. It wasn’t that she didn’t fear him; he could see in the nervous set of her eyes sometimes that she knew he was dangerous (though she could neither know how dangerous he truly was, nor that he was no danger at all to her). And yet she laughed.

“Are you going to leave them out there?” she asked, as the howl went up again.

He didn’t particularly mind a helpless enemy unable to get at him. But he supposed their noise might keep Belle up all night. “I shall let them know we are not at home to visitors,” he declared, and went over to the cabinet where he kept a selection of trinkets, trophies, and treasures. The tiny model of the Dark Castle had been sculpted of fine marble. He picked it up, turned it once on his palm, and tapped it back down on the shelf.

“What’ve you done?’ Belle asked. She would only have felt the sudden tug of magic.

He threw himself into his chair by the fire, mostly theatrics, but it had taken a fair amount of magic to do, and that was tiring. “Taken us off the map. For the moment, no one can find this castle.”

She smiled in admiration and settled in front of the fire at his feet with her book, no longer worried.

Two hours later, another howl went up.

Rumplestiltskin stalked up to his tower and uncovered a small mirror. “That was a neat trick, dearie,” he told Regina through a grimace.

“Trick? She asked with a smile. “I’ve done nothing.”

“You really must learn to lie properly, your majesty. I did try to teach you.”

“And while you were teaching me, you always said you could smell my magic from a mile away. So take a sniff, my dear. Have I been anywhere near your little den?”

“Your pets have.”

“Oh, yes. I’d like to thank you, by the way, for all the little toys you sent me by way of them. Enjoy.”

Her image disappeared in a swirl.

So, she’d done something to the wolves that didn’t require her direct involvement. And now Belle was looking frightened, as if she no longer wholly believed he could protect them. It was extremely irritating.

He went up to a battlement, above where two of the wolves paced. One of them jumped and growled and snapped, and he laughed at it, and turned it into a piglet.

Except that the magic fizzled and the wolf stayed as it was.

Rumplestiltskin went very still, and very cold. Regina was not here, and his magic was not working. He ran back to Belle and turned her into a white kitten, who mewled unhappily up at him until he turned her back.

She lost her balance when she was back on two legs, and fell to the floor. “You promised you wouldn’t do that anymore,” she complained. Her voice had gone thick and watery. He’d forgotten how much it upset her.

“Necessary, dearie, quite necessary. Sorry,” he muttered, and made for his tower again. So his magic was all right, it was the wolves, something Regina had done with the wolves.

He paced the room at the top of his tower, racking his brain. Regina lacked his experience and his resources. What could she have done --

“Hello? Is anyone there? Please let us in, there are wolves,” said a child’s voice. And then a moment later, “Oh, please?” Magic was pushing the voice right through the walls of his castle; he’d have been able to hear it in every room.

“Belle,” he muttered, and ran down the stairs. They’d play on her pity, and the stupid girl would open the doors and let them in.

He was ready to freeze her, but when he reached the entrance hall, she was saying, a laugh in her voice, “Oh now really, how stupid do you think I am?”

“Don’t open the door!” he ordered.

She turned to him. “I wasn’t going to,” she said, looking annoyed. “It’s obviously a trick.”

He grasped her shoulders, grinning. “Clever girl! Whatever they say, whatever they try, just ignore them.”

“Why don’t you -- I mean, couldn’t you just -- “

He whirled away from her with a snarl. He must look powerless and pathetic at this moment. He was tempted to give her a day or two with whiskers and a tail, just to prove that his power was undiminished. “The enchantment on the wolves -- is difficult.”

Her little hand curled round his wrist. “You just need time to work. I understand. You don’t have to worry about me letting them in.”

He nodded, unsatisfied but determined, and went back to work.

 

He worked through the night, and something continued to elude him. Regina was not as powerful as he was, her magic should have been easy enough to counter. And he knew a number of ways to deal with a charm that protected against all magic. And yet nothing was working.

And then, just as pale light slowly began to fall over the castle, there was a new voice.

It was screaming in agony, wailing, “No!”

It was his own.

For a moment the recognition only confused him.

Then, he understood, but by the time he’d reached the entrance hall it was too late. The door was open.

One of the wolves had a crossbow bolt sticking out of its shoulder, and Belle was bashing away at another with a sword, screaming, “Rumplestiltskin!” and looking around frantically. Two more wolves circled round behind her.

Rumplestiltskin pulled a sword from a scabbard he hadn’t been wearing until a moment ago. His magic worked fine on himself. He leapt behind Belle and brought the blade down on the first wolf’s neck.

It gave a high sharp cry of pain and blood spurted wildly.

Immune to his magic, but not, it appeared, to physical harm. Well then, he would just have to get his hands dirty.

There were eight wolves, and they were all huge, powerful, fast, more like werewolves than the true wolves of the forest. And they had human intelligence and human viciousness, unlike the mostly-peaceable forest hunters. He killed three of them before one knocked him off his feet. He was down for only a moment, but the sword was knocked aside and after that it was no longer easy.

He could still move faster than the eye could see, he could still spin in place and grab and strike with more power than any normal man. He could still punch through a ribcage and pull out a beating heart. But without his magic, it was a long terrible battle.

Their claws and teeth and the impact of their huge fast bodies could not kill him, but he was quite capable of feeling pain and sustaining injury.

And the stupid, stupid girl, instead of running inside, stayed there, swinging her little sword, striking out at any wolf within reach.

Two left, he thought. Only two. But he was tiring now.

One left.

It was clever, and huge, and finally it knocked him off his feet hard enough to leave him dazed for a second. It leapt at his throat.

 

Rumplestiltskin woke in pain, but warm. His head and shoulders were softly supported, and he could hear crackle. He was inside, he realized, on the floor before the fire, and Belle was softly wiping his face. “Please,” she whispered, “oh, please.”

He managed to open his eyes, and she smiled down at him. There were tears on her face. “You’re alive!”

“Immortal,” he corrected. His voice was nothing but a faint creak of sound.

“You are?” she looked so absurdly delighted at this that he couldn’t think of an answer.

“I’ve bound your wounds,” she told him, “Just bandages. I’ve read about poultices, but you said never to use anything from your tower, so I couldn’t get the herbs.”

Just as well. Most of the potion ingredients in his tower room were what they appeared to be, but not all. Certain ongoing plans would be disrupted if, for example, she’d tried to use some of the tansy, which was actually Tansy, who’d be returning to her village in a year or so if all went according to plan.

“I can heal myself,” he said, and shut his eyes. He moved his hand from one source of pain to the next. He would heal in any case, but he had the power to speed things up. Unfortunately, using it tired him further. Sleep crept over him again.

 

The next time he woke, he was still by the fire, and Belle still supported him in her lap, but was holding a book in the other hand, busily reading.

“You killed the last wolf,” he said.

She put down the book hurriedly. “You killed it, really. I just finished it off. I don’t actually know how to use a sword.”

“Oh, well then; we will have to see to lessons,” he said airily. (Later he would regret this, although the hours teaching her the rudiments of fencing turned out to be unexpectedly enjoyable.)

“I’m glad you’re awake. You said you were immortal, but I wasn’t sure if -- “

“Immortal, yes. Although not invulnerable, obviously.”

“And you beat the wolves. I’m so sorry I opened the door. I thought -- they made it sound like you and I woke up and I just -- I wasn’t thinking.”

Yes, that explained it. She’d been disoriented, woken from sleep. That must be why the last trick had worked on her, when they’d made themselves sound like him.

Oh. Oh Regina. Stubborn and still inexperienced, and yet not without her moments of invention. His magic had not worked on them. They had found his castle, and sounded their voices through its walls. They had used his voice. Him.

Eight charms he’d made and given to the family Regina had turned into wolves. He’d used cloaks; that was traditional. And one of them, he’d swept briefly onto his own shoulders in a moment of theatrics.

She’d collected the leavings of his magic in the charms and a hair from the cloak, and that had been enough to protect them all from his magic.

He looked tiredly up at Belle, and then blinked. Her nightdress was red-brown with blood all down the front. He reached up, tugging her collar aside to see her throat. “Where are you hurt?”

“It’s yours, she said in a small voice. Yours and theirs -- you were bloody to the elbows.”

He looked at his hand. She had wiped it clean, but there was still blood in the beds of his nails. She’d dragged him inside. She could easily have left him there in the snow; not knowing he wouldn’t die. She could easily have made her escape.

There were shallow scratches at the base of her throat all the same. And after a moment she shyly pushed back her sleeves and he saw she had bandaged both arms.

“Am I -- I -- they were werewolves, weren’t they?”

She was staring into the fire, biting at her lip. This was a new perspective on her face; he could see her fear most in in her chin and her lower lip.

“Not the sort you’re thinking of,” he told her. “No howling at the moon for you.”

A damp rush of a laugh told him how deep her relief went.

“Pity,” he said, “could have used a dog about the place. And you complain about being a cat.”

She laughed again, and swatted lightly at his shoulder.

He got himself to his feet, though he was aching and tired, and ran his hands down himself, healing the remaining damage and, because he had an audience, making a flourish of it. The gesture mended and tidied his clothes as well.

Belle was still sitting on the floor, smiling. She liked to watch him do small magics.

He held out his hand like a courtier, and helped her to her feet. He passed his hands in a gesture down her body as well, healing her wounds and the many bruises and scrapes she hadn’t mentioned, and bringing her nightdress back to its pristine state. His hands were inches from her body and he never touched, but when they reached the level of her waist, he realized they were staring into each other’s eyes. She gave a little shiver, and he glanced away, embarrassed without quite knowing why. As soon as it was done he hurriedly turned away, snapping his fingers.

Then he had to glance back to see the result. There had been a lot of fur, so he had given the cloak an overcape with a hood and added a muff and a pair of boots.

The fur was clean, but the many colors detracted, he thought at first glance, from the effect, so he snapped his fingers once more to leach it all out to soft snowy white.

Belle stared down at herself. “It’s . . . very nice.”

“Winter is coming on. Can’t have you cold,” he said, offhandedly.

“It’s warm in the castle. And I’m not allowed out.”

He went to his spinning wheel. “Considering the result of going out the door just now, I think that’s best. Isn’t it about time you saw to breakfast?”

“All right,” she said in a subdued voice, and left.

The spinning wheel spun, spun, and in his head he considered exactly the best thing he might do to see to it that Regina was never tempted to turn his own magic against him again.

He never asked her why she hadn’t left him to die, and he only allowed himself to think of the sublime sensation of lying warm in her arms much later, when she was gone and it was too late.

 

 

 

_One year before the curse_

 

In every book Belle had read about someone locked away in a cell, the days always passed too slowly for the prisoner. Books weren’t always right. Belle’s days went far, far too quickly. This was her life, and every day here was a day thrown away.

There was nothing in the cell but herself and the bed, so she had nothing to do but pace and think, but when she saw the quality of the light changing with sunset, she always wished desperately for just a little more time, to give that day the chance to be the last.

There had only been one rescue attempt, and that had gone all wrong. Her supposed rescuer had tried to kill her and she’d had to be rescued from her rescuer by the Queen, which would at least make a good story later.

She still hoped for rescue, though, hoped every day.

She hadn’t, at first. Rumplestiltskin had sent her away, after all, and would hardly have known that she’d been plucked off the road on her way back to him. Her brief visit to her father after she left the Dark Castle had had begun in a raging argument and ended in a bitter letter left under her father’s door as she slipped out of the castle in the night. No one knew where she was, or was expecting her to come.

And perhaps no one wanted her to come. Her father wanted her back only if she would become a child again. Rumplestiltskin seemed not to want her back at all.

So she did what she could, thinking through her memories of every story she’d read and trying, one after another, the ways heroes had escaped. None of them worked, and she began to suspect that all those heroes had had help. She suspected she knew whose.

Eventually she ran out of ruses -- pretending to be ill, or dead, or frightened, or attracted to a guard -- and offers -- she had little to offer besides her body, but she tried saying her father would pay, or even that Rumplestiltskin would -- and tricks -- setting fire to her bed got them to open the door, but there were four guards, so knocking the first one through the door down didn’t particularly help. After that, she had to fall back on her own brain and strength. She scraped slowly away at one bit of the wall. She tried a thousand times to climb the walls, so she could get a look at the slit windows high above, and the roof, but she fell back down onto the bed every time.

And then one day, the Queen came by and gave her hope.

The Queen visited only occasionally. At first, Belle had tried to argue, or cajole, or beg her, but it wasn’t long before she realized she was only amusing the Queen. She’d asked if she couldn’t have a book, or some paper and ink, and the Queen had laughed at that too.

“Hello, Belle,” the queen said. Through the little slot in the door, all Belle could see was her beautiful smiling face.

Belle felt hope rise that this time something would happen -- the Queen would offer her some deal that would get her out of here. Rumplestiltskin had taught her much about the danger of deals, but she was as desperate as any of the people he'd ever got the better of. She would pay, oh how she would gladly pay, for a chance to be out of here.

“Enjoying yourself?” the Queen asked. “I hope so. You live in a castle, after all, at my expense.”

But no, this was why she came. She was like a child poking an animal through the bars of a cage, taunting. Perhaps she was bored.

“Please, your majesty -- “ Belle began, though she knew it wasn’t worth bothering.

“He’s not coming for you, you know, your beloved twisted little gnome. I’ve just seen him. He’s got a new girl in his castle these days, you know, pretty little thing. You, my dear, are quite forgotten.”

And just like that, it dawned on Belle how stupid she’d been to be hopeless. “If that were true, if you didn’t think he cared, I wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t bother keeping me, at your expense, if you didn’t think you could use me against him.”

The queen tilted her head and smiled, “Well, you’re less stupid than your infatuation with that grotesque would imply. But believe me, he isn’t looking for you.” The smile now showed teeth. “Somehow, he’s got into his head the notion that you’re dead: your father’s oppression -- over your love for a monster -- drove you to throw yourself off a tower.”

“He’s cleverer than you,” Belle burst out. “He’s cleverer, and more powerful, and one day -- “

“One day, dearie,” said the Queen, voice gone syrup and velvet, “yes, maybe one day I’ll need to distract that hideous beloved of yours, and your pretty little fresh corpse thrown across his path will be exactly the thing.”

And the Queen had laughed. But Belle had hope, after that. Rumplestitlskin still cared, and he was so brilliant, and so powerful, it could only be a matter of time before he learned where she was, and then he would come.

Hope got the better of her that day. She scraped at the wall, and imagined breaking through to see his strange eye looking back at her. She pried at the door and imagined hearing his sly giggling voice through it, saying something unkind and funny.

She tried to climb to the window, and when she fell down to her bed she remembered falling into his arms, so long ago, and that long moment when his strength had held her, and she’d felt the heat of his body, and looked into his face from so close and realized she didn’t find it ugly at all; it was just him.

And she remembered sitting at his feet before the fire, reading, and she’d unthinkingly leaned against his knee and he’d let her stay there.

And she remembered him bloody and wild and terrifying and suddenly and irrevocably beautiful, tearing the wolves apart, and how he’d slept in her lap after, when her terror of him had become terror of losing him.

And she remembered the brief glowing sweetness of kissing him, before he had panicked.

And she pulled the blanket over herself and shut her eyes and pressed her hand between her legs.

She’d imagined lovers before, since she was young, but their faces and bodies had always been imprecise; they were heroes from her books, or amalgams of them, or her idea of a better hero -- cleverer, less shallow, less vain, better mannered.

At fourteen she’d had a crush on one of the archers in the town guard, but she’d never gone beyond imagining kisses with him. It had felt somehow too much, to imagine him when she touched her body in bed at night.

Now, for the first time, she imagined her lover in every detail, his greying curls swinging over her face, his sharp nose and his sharp smile coming closer, the way she’d feel his rough skin touch her cheek a moment before taking the warm firmness of his lower lip between hers. Hot body over her, taut whipcord, a body like a bow at full draw.

She dragged in a deep breath and pressed with her fingers, enough to relieve the first sting of want, and then dragged her hand up to touch her throat, scratching a little and imagining his claws touching her.

She bit her lips together, thinking and thinking and thinking of kissing him, and squeezed her breasts, lifting and pressing them in both hands. She slipped her right hand in under her bodice, and squirmed; the tower room was never warm and her fingers felt cold. His were always hot. She tucked the fingers in under her breast to warm for a moment, then pulled at one nipple. She pictured his face there, his mouth on her, and abruptly pinched, pinched hard, digging her fingernails in, pinched so hard it hurt and sent a hot wave through her, because she was sure he would do that, bite her.

The imagined heroes would never have done that, always treated her with utmost care and gentleness. But she wanted him -- dangerous and vicious as he was, wanted exactly him, and yes, she would free him from his darkness if she could, but it was him she wanted, not some kind stranger in his place.

She dug her fingers into her sides, and then pulled aside the skirt of the rough dress the Queen had dressed her in. The Queen had taken away the clothes she’d chosen for herself when she was on the road, when she was for such a little time a free thing.

Belle’s fingers dragged through the springy little curls. Her fingers seemed cooler than ever here where she was humid, and she tucked both hands in where her thighs met her body, heating them. Then she touched herself in the dip where hair gave way and her body started to become complex.

First there was just just the swollen ridge in its little hollow, and she only brushed over it, thinking that Rumplestiltskin would tease her.

Then soft elaborate folds, and she pressed at them. She pictured his sly face, looking down at her, and that odd sad tenderness in his eyes that only came out when he didn’t realize it. She pressed with fingers she imagined were his, and was drenched. Her body opened to the false promise of him and flooded fingers and knuckles with slick welcome.

She imagined his eyes widening, and then his smirk. He couldn’t doubt that she wanted him after that. She wouldn’t let him doubt.

 _Taste_ she imagined telling him, and pulled her own fingers up to her mouth, to see what flavor she was giving him. He would do as she said, and taste her and they would kiss again as he slid his hand back down, as she now returned her hand to the wet center of her body.

She stroked herself, that long bump of skin ending in a little hooded seed of flesh that felt aching hot and swollen now. Up and down, her hips giving little pushes that she had no control over. Then the pearl itself, but it was too much to touch directly, so she rubbed the protecting loose shell of skin against it.

Imagination decoupling from her actions, she went back to her slow up and down stroking while she imagined Rumplestiltskin skinned out of his elaborate leathers and fine shirts, imagined him bare and hard for her. She’d never seen more of him than what she’d washed and bandaged that day with the wolves, cutting the leather further where it was torn so she could get at his wounds.

She remembered, in the very early days in his castle, worrying that he’d expect her to bathe him like a body slave. Now she wished he’d at least expected her to haul bathwater in for him. Her image of him was unsatisfying because she knew how incomplete it was.

Well, she wouldn’t see it too well, would she, when he was atop her, body pressing tight?

Belle turned her head into the pallet, imagining him there, on her. Her thighs clenched around her hand and rubbed restlessly together.

Her breath now coming quick and shallow, Belle spread her legs and pushed fingers into herself. Her teeth clamped on her lower lip. Rumplestiltskin hard, Rumplestiltskin inside her, pushing in, heat and thrilling and hers. She had seen flashes of his vulnerability, and she wanted those as much as his sharp tongue and sharp mind. She wanted to wrap him up in her arms and her legs and hold him just where she wanted him, hold him safe and tight, hold him, all her own.

The fantasy fractured into images of him and the heat of that idea, of owning the raw power and strange heart of him. She rubbed at herself, fingers wet and frantic, and finally pulling back the hood over where she was most sensitive and rubbing there, because that naked merciless intensity, which brought tears to the corners of her eyes, was the closest thing to what Rumplestiltskin meant in her heart.

It ended with a sensation that hit her like a slap, deep bite of pleasure and then a long slow burn as it eased off in clenching waves.

For some time she just lay there, limp and sad, but not shamed. Oddly, she felt almost a defiant pride. She was in love, and this felt like nothing so much as proof. It felt like an offering. It felt like a promise. One day, one day they would be together, and she would kiss him again, and this time she would fight until he surrendered himself to love.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Storybrooke, three days after the end of the curse_

 

"You've been quiet," she said, when half of dinner had gone by in silence. "I shouldn't have – I'm sorry. I just... being here, being with you. I don't know, maybe I did go a bit mad, in that room. I've never – "

And, he realized, of course she never had. In the real world there had been only her father's stifling home, and then him. And then, first in that world and then in this, for her nothing but a small room and a locked door. She'd not even had what most of the rest of the population had at some point tried in this world, sex for its own sake in an unreal life.

She'd cupped him in her virgin hand and brought him to climax for the sake of her own innocent lust.

"Belle," he whispered, putting down his fork. "Belle, will you please come to bed with me?"

Her breath rushed in with a little gasp. "Oh."

He cherished the blotches of pink that had risen on her cheeks. "Not that dinner isn't delicious, but –"

Her eyes widened. "Oh, oh! Now? Yes. Oh, please, yes." She pushed back from the table and nearly knocked over her glass.

Rumplestiltskin hurried out of his own chair and caught her in his arms, held her to him. Easier like this, easier to hold her so close she couldn't see him. He pressed his face in her soft hair and the scent made him reel. Without his stick, she was his only support. Holding tight, he guided her most of the way to his bedroom in a sort of dance. 

In the castle she'd been in and out of his sleeping chamber all the time, to see to the linens and clean up after him. But not this. Never this.

He wanted to ask her to lay herself down on his bed and let him see her there, see her there for him. He wanted her to lie with her head on his pillow and say to him _Yes. Oh, please, yes_ , again.

Instead he stepped behind her on the pretense of unzipping her dress, and kissed all across her soft pale shoulders as he bared them. He was safe from her gaze here, and she'd been behind him before, so he had some excuse. Her body seemed the center of the room, the center of the house, the center of the world.

The little wriggle and grunt she gave as she dragged the dress off over her head might have been the most endearing thing he had ever seen.

He'd gone into town and bought new underthings for her, as well as clothes so she wouldn't be stuck with the cast-offs from his store. There had been nothing prurient in that, he'd simply been taking care of her. Now, the lace against her full breasts and soft waist made him gasp, and he dropped to his knees again, to rub his cheek at her hip and feel lace scratchy against his jaw and her soft side against his brow.

Giggling, she tried to twist to look at him, and he ran his fingertips up her sides to make her squirm and giggle more.

But he had to hold onto her waist to get to his feet again, shamed and enfeebled once more by his traitor leg. Pathetic. She couldn't have missed it. He reached forward and drew a trail of sparks across her collarbones, magic he could manage easily enough even here. He drew her a necklace of diamonds on her skin that glittered and crackled with soft heat.

Belle went stiff. "Oh, Rumple, no," she said, stopping his hand with her own. "No magic, please. I want to feel _you_."

"But magic is me, my dear," he insisted. The magic, the power, not his spidery and ill-made body.

"No magic." she whispered, voice gone small, "Please. There's always a price, isn't that what you've always said?"

He'd have told her that he didn't care, that in this world he'd found he could still spin the straw of other people's desperation into the gold of power. Paying for normal magic was not a problem. He could pay.

The problem was _this_. Love was the most powerful magic, and its price was always pain and loss. He didn't know how he could bear to pay it again.

What he'd paid the first time, for so little, had been more than enough. Surely whole worlds would be torn out of him to pay for the scent of her skin and her head in his lap and her hand on him. Surely the only hope was to bring his power to bear, to cheat the world before the world could cheat him.

He'd have tried to tell her this somehow, without admitting what a brittle and cringing thing he was. But before he could find the words, she'd guided his hand to her breast, and the soft resilience, the way it filled his grip, flushed him with such warmth that he was left with his forehead resting on her shoulder, panting down her back as his hand gently squeezed and caressed her. He slipped fingers inside the cup of the bra so it was all her softness against his fingertips and palm, and the scratch of lace on his knuckles. When he caught the nipple between two fingers and squeezed, she mewled as if he had done something wonderful.

"Do that... again," she breathed. So he did, and again, and again, and nosed aside a bra strap so he could mouth her shoulder, and bit delicately at her throat until she was panting.

Then he carefully undid the catch on the bra and smoothed the straps down. Instead of falling, it caught under her breasts. He lifted one soft breast in each hand, and the bra fell free down her arms. Holding her breasts he pulled her back against him. He was hard for the second time that day, and he let her feel it. A little bit shyly, she pressed back.

It felt so good he shut his eyes and just held her there for a moment, then nudged her to step forward until they were at the edge of the bed. "Go on," he murmured, "get in." Then he pulled away, going back for the light.

He'd foregone tie and jacket when he'd re-dressed himself, and in his rush now he pulled the shirt, still buttoned, over his head as he limped the few steps to the lightswitch, and was shoving down his trousers and fresh boxer shorts on the way back when she switched on the bedside lamp.

She was seeing him, seeing him scrawny and tottering on his bad leg and he wanted badly to flip into the air, to trail fire from his fingers, to blow the bulb of the light with a glare, to impress her with his vitality, to give her the Dark One and not the rickety shepherd.

But she'd asked for no magic, and he tried, tried, postponing his failure. Until his will crumbled, he would pretend to be what she thought he was, what she thought she wanted. He'd lay his mangy hide down at her feet and let her hands soothe him and pretend not to be rabid and broken.

Belle dragged down her panties and then squirmed on the bed to push them down her legs. Then she looked up at him, nerve and thrill in her welcoming smile, and if her revelation came now, if she saw him clear at last as he was and he lost that smile, the world would go dark again and he would have no way to light it but to set a thousand souls afire.

He bent to bury his face in her bare belly, kiss her navel and the little hairs below it and she was soft, she was so soft, and he still felt made of lizard skin, as if he would rasp her raw with his ugliness.

Her fingers went into his hair, tangling and gripping and holding him there. "Oh," she breathed, "I've wanted you, touching me. So much."

"On your side, my dear," he said into her skin. "You know I always repay my debts."

Breath quick, she turned her back to him, and he climbed into the bed and pressed himself to her naked flank.

Her bottom was such a soft warm swell that he groaned as his cock pressed against it. He put his arms round her, finding the indent of her waist perfect clearance for his right, which wrapped tight round her, while the left roamed freely: breasts, sides, belly.

His hand skimmed lower, just crossing the crisp prickle of hair before he stroked the front of her thigh, down as far as he could reach, nearly to her knee.

"Oh, please," she whispered.

Rumplestiltskin straightened his fingers and pressed the side of his hand at the seam between her strong thighs, pushing until he'd insinuated his way in up to the knuckles, and then slowly began to work his way up.

Wantonly, she spread her legs for him, refusing to provide any resistance, and his hand glided all the way up the inside of her thigh. It was like nearing a furnace, and then the side of his index finger was suddenly hot and drenched. Belle wailed and moved her hips, and Rumplestiltskin gently sawed the side of his hand all along that hot cleft: wet silky skin below and coarse protective thicket of hair above, wet too. Wet and wet and wet

"Belle," he breathed in her ear, awed. No magic, he'd used no tricks, she'd seen nearly none of his power tonight, and yet she was magnificently wet for him, was shuddering and whimpering at the first touch of his finger.

Carefully, face pressed into her neck and arm holding tight round her waist, he pressed two fingers inside. Too slippery at first and they skidded up against the complexity of her folds, and she grunted and jerked. On the second try his angle was perfect, and she squeezed him slick, so hot, so slippery smooth until her hips twitched and his fingertips encountered the first hint of a patch of roughness deeper inside.

He'd barely bothered to use his fingers to explore inside a woman, before now. By the time he'd known enough to appreciate the sexual utility of such foreplay, he'd been able to do it from a foot away, through seven layers of petticoats, magic prickling or hot or teasingly cool while his hands stayed dry and languid at his sides.

He wanted to spend an hour with his fingers tucked into the firm grip of Belle's body, allowed to touch this place no one else had, no one else could. He wanted to know her textures, know the secret shape of her, own her the way only perfect knowledge could establish possession. Own her because she allowed him there, almost too intimate to be believed.

And he wanted to get his fingers out of the way and slide his cock into that clasping wetness, now, this moment.

For as long as he could withstand the urgency in his cock, he moved his fingers inside that narrow heat. He was a little man with a little cock, and he knew it, but with so many reasons to despise him, he couldn't bear to give her another. He was monstrous enough, he would not be a monster in this, he would be careful. He wouldn't tear her, the way other men seemed to believe a woman must always be torn. Let her hate him for something else, not that. So he scissored his fingers a little, and felt her incredible tightness easing slowly as she grew restless in his arms.

Belle moaned as his hand rubbed her folds with the motion of his fingers inside her, and finally she whispered urgently, "I want you, please. Oh please, I need – ."

So he gently pushed her leg forward, leaving a smear of her own juices on the back of her thigh, and then took his cock in hand. The sensation of his own wet fingers on himself made him groan and press his face against her shoulder. Then, panting, biting his lower lip for control, he guided himself into place.

"Belle," he gritted out, voice tight, "Belle – "

He should have been reassuring her, or telling her to relax, instead he just went on repeating her name, "Belle, Belle. Oh, Belle," as he sank slowly, very slowly, feeling her slippery walls clutching round him.

Belle whimpered and gasped, but didn't tense or cry out or tell him to stop.

He was inside, and it was different, it was. Different from Milah, who'd never fully hidden her disappointment with him, not even in those early days when she'd still tried. Different too from the various adversaries with whom fucking had been a dance of dominance and powerplay.

He'd wanted to please Milah to appease her. He'd wanted to please others to prove he could, or to prove he could give them more pleasure than they could give him.

But pleasing Belle felt only natural and necessary, and when she twisted her hips a little and pushed back at him and moaned, her pleasure was a beautiful thing in itself.

He thrust again, and sank deeper, and grunted in shocked ecstasy. Every cynical mote of his nature told him that sex was sex, that he'd do just as well masturbating.

And a tear spilled down his cheek as he moved out and then deeper inside her again and he wanted this, just like this with Belle, forever.

One more slow push and he was utterly flush with her, all his length buried inside, and Belle made a little sound in the back of her throat. Rumplestiltskin held himself still, stunned with contentment at being permitted to possess her so completely, in no hurry to move.

Gently he stroked her with his fingers, rubbing gently until he found the swollen hot little bead in its nest of flesh. She winced at a direct touch, but cried out and ground her hips back against him when he found the ridge above and stroked firmly up and down its length. Plump damp flesh pressed either side of his finger and his fingertip rode that taut buried stem.

She moaned and shuddered as he touched her there, and when he used his fingertip to play the hood in swerves and flourishes, as if polishing a jewel, she wailed and bucked and around his cock her cunt clenched tight and tighter, tight and tighter.

Rumplestiltskin's breath rushed out of him in an exultant "Hah – " and he clamped her hard to him as she writhed and whimpered and quivered exquisitely around his cock.

He kept stroking her, wanting this delicate power over her to last forever, but finally she clutched at his wrist. "Give – give me a moment – " she begged.

He slid his hand away, nuzzled his face into her neck and tasted the new tang of salt sweat on her skin. "Shall I – " he offered, starting to shift back. His arousal was delicious and agonizing, but if she asked he would spill himself on the sheets happily to prove his control over this reviled body.

"No. Gods no, you're perfect there," she whispered, breathless, "You're lovely there. Gods, you're inside me. Just give me a moment."

So he laid there, and held her, until she shifted again, hips pulling only briefly away before pressing back to take him fully again. "Now move. Let me feel you."

And when he did, when he thrust into her, she laughed, not jeering and taunting him, but a laugh of breathless happy approval. It was practically applause.

Rumplestiltskin thrust again, and again, and every one was met with her body rocking to meet him and her little sounds as if he were a shock and a delight.

Soon he was bucking faster, groaning. Her body was luxurious, decadent, lovely, and in the end he had to roll her forward, half under him in his desperation to be buried as deep as he could. His body spasmed and shuddered and a sting of terrible pleasure was followed with a bloom of hot rose-colored contentment that left him rag-limp, melted onto her, feeling that he might melt _into_ her.

It took a very long time before he had control enough over his limbs to shift off her, both of them catching their breath as his cock slipped all the way out. Rumplestiltskin reached to switch off the light she'd turned on, and then he tugged at her shoulder until she rolled to her back and he kissed her mouth in the dark, so slow and sweet and deep, as if he could lick at the source of her beautiful sweetness.

He dragged his mouth away and kissed her breasts, shifted down to kiss her sodden hot cunt, until she was giggling wildly and tugging him back up, and they kissed some more, both chuckling for no reason but stupid happiness.

Finally he rested his forehead against hers. "You'll stay, here." He'd given her a bedroom of her own, the previous nights, now the thought she might sleep elsewhere was cold and harsh.

She pecked kisses on either cheek, then on his forehead. "In my bed in the cell, that was the sweetest part, you know, the saddest part, drifting off after, and that moment when I was just close enough to sleep I could dream I was holding you in my arms, all the night through."

He held her close. He didn't want her frightened. He wanted the rest of the world terrified, but not her. So he couldn't let her know how he was churning inside with murder and vengeance and love.

"Of course I'll stay," she finished, "Gods, hold me, just hold me and this time I'll wake up and it'll be true." She was shaking a little now. "Please let this be true."

So she fell asleep with her face tucked into his neck and his arms holding her close, and he could not leave to stab justice or whip redress or bombard recompense on the sleeping world. He would stay here, and give her what she wanted, while still she wanted him.

He would hold her to him for as long as he could preserve this. And Rumplestiltskin was a man of great cunning, a man of great power. There were tricks he could turn. He would fight, and scheme, and one day he would succeed, and one day, triumphant and unassailable, he would no longer feel his love curdling with the cold terror of losing her.

 

 

_One year before the curse_

 

This is a traveler’s tale: In one clearing in the Infinite Forest there are a wide unclouded pool and a graceful spreading willow. The pool is fed by a tiny bubbling spring that arcs water feebly towards the willow. The willow’s long dragging branches swing softly toward the pool when there is a breeze. In the pool there is a naiad who cannot leave her water. In the tree there is a dryad who cannot leave her wood. They reach for each other, and cannot touch. The clearing stands in a sweet haze of love and sorrow.

 

Rumplestiltskin went there once. 

He wandered often, in those days, when his castle had once more become dark and cold and empty. He’d heard a traveller’s tale of what the pool might do, and afterward he went back to find the traveller and mete out appropriate punishment for getting it wrong. That whole caravan of travellers made a pretty flock of blackbirds, and the blackbirds made a fine pie.

It was autumn, and as Rumplestiltskin watched, the first golden leaf of the willow released itself from one drooping branch and spun, and fell to touch the water. Rings of ripple spread from it and there were two sighs of longing and ecstasy and sorrow.

Rumplestiltskin watched his reflection in the moving water.

When it cleared, the traveller had said, he would see thing thing he most wanted to see.

Bae, he willed it, Bae where he was now. Let him see the city or the wood or the fields, let him see his son’s face, surely changed with years. Let him know where he would go, once the curse had come and gone.

And he did see Baelfire’s face. But it was the face he knew, the face of a child. Baelfire as a boy, sitting at their table, firelight making his skin red-gold.

In the image, Rumplestiltskin was sitting at the table too, his old self, the pathetic little man with no power.

In the image, both of them looked up and smiled to see someone come in.

Rumplestiltskin winced back from the image, not wanting to see Milah again, not ever. And so he nearly missed the sweet heart-shaped face, the eyes like light on seawater. 

In the image, Belle dropped a kiss on Baelfire’s head as she walked past and then settled herself on the lap of the ugly little man at the table and they were both smiling, laughing, as they kissed, kissed, kissed.

What he’d wanted most to see.

 

This is a traveller’s tale: In the Infinite Forest there stands a wide clear space of earth blasted black. In that space there is no water and no trees will grow. When wind blows through that place ashes swirl amid the bones of two skeletons. Both are damaged, blackened and broken, and they are tangled together as if, before some fury turned them to steam and kindling, the naiad and the dryad were given a moment in each other’s arms. The clearing stands in a haze of ash and loss.

Rumplestiltskin went there once. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to the beautiful people at #antidiogenes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Tamed, Wild, Caged, and Feral Creatures](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139058) by [merripestin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merripestin/pseuds/merripestin)




End file.
